I ended a date early tonight over Lindsay Clancy. I took a lovely young lady, Rachel, out to dinner tonight at a famous Michelin-star restaurant. Things started off nicely; we had good conversation and enjoyed a few beverages. Naturally, I ordered her a salad with a light dressing, and I ordered the 38oz porterhouse. Medium rare, of course. Our food arrived, and the conversation turned to current events. The steak was savory, beefy, and rich. A fine piece of meat cooked to absolute perfection. I was savoring the last few bites of meaty bliss when I heard Rachel say something about a “mistrial” that momentarily distracted me from my meal. “It’s so, like, disgusting that one juror detailed the entire judicial process and caused a mistrial,” she said as she tapped her fork on her empty salad plate. “I feel so bad for Lindsay. She’s going to have to go through all of the pain of that trial AGAIN now…” I felt my left eye begin to twitch with righteous indignation as I processed the words Rachel was saying. I put my hands across the table and signaled for a time out. “Hold on, Rachel,” I said. “I have something to say, but I’m not going to let it ruin this beautiful steak.“ Savoring every bite, I finished my meal in peaceful silence; only the ambient sounds of an elite restaurant could be heard. I cleared my plate and leaned back in my chair, motioning for the waitress to bring me the check. “Lindsay Clancy is a murderer,” I said, looking Rachel directly in the eye. “Juror number 12 is a hero. Period. End of story.” I was fired up. I continued to educate Rachel on the facts of the case at a rapid pace and with increasing passion. The waitress had arrived about halfway through my barrage of correction, but I was too locked in to notice. I finished saying my piece, took a breath, and paid the bill. “It was nice meeting you, Rachel.” I said as I stood up to leave. “I hope you’ve learned something valuable tonight.” She looked stunned as I strolled away and went right to the door. Several other tables had overheard our conversation. I noticed several men at other tables giving me subtle fist pumps and nods of approval as I passed by. I walked out the door and tossed the valet, a handsome and strong-looking young man with an intense gaze named Jon, a crisp $20 and got in my car. “Sir,” he interjected. “Should I let the lady know the car is ready?” “No, son,” I replied as I pulled away. “Call her an Uber Pool. I’m out.”